The Beating of the Drums
by airamamba
Summary: Many can hear the beating of the drums, but to each they can play a very different tune. Some have everything, others nothing to lose. What does an ambitious, obsessive man do when his path is crossed by someone who soberly sees the possible consequences of his venture? Enjolras/OC
1. A trip, a dress and a cafe

**Summary:** Many can hear the beating of the drums, but to each they can play a very different tune. Some have everything, others nothing to lose. What does an ambitious, obsessive man do when his path is crossed by someone who soberly sees the possible consequences of his venture? Enjolras/OC...somewhat. Based on both book and musical.

**Author's Note:** An OC - I know what most may be thinking, but I promise to bleed my heart out before letting her become a Mary-Sue. Rating is for future chapters.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Les Miserables".

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**"THE BEATING OF THE DRUMS"**

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**I. A trip, a dress and a cafe**

As the carriage moved, the view behind its window slowly changed from a rural landscape to an urban one. After passing the city gates, the wooden wheels no longer quietly murmured on dirt roads, but rang against the cobblestone streets. The air also smelled different - heavy, lacking the freshness of open spaces. This is what happened when a city began to outgrow its walled borders, becoming cramped and suffocating.

"Couldn't you have put on something more presentable?" A male voice broke the silence long lingering inside the coach. "You look like a servant girl, and one from a bad household." Jacques Laurent said with discontent, looking at his daughter, who sat in the dark corner of the opposite side of the carriage, gazing blankly outside its window.

"Was I supposed to tie myself in a corset for this six hour travel? I can barely wear it for one." Georgine answered without emotion, head resting against the wall of the carriage, her stare fixed on the changing view.

"No, but you could have chosen something better looking." Laurent grimaced as he studied the girl's simple, green dress that's best days had long ago passed. Her hairstyle didn't compliment her either, a sloppy updo one could jest she made in the dark without the help of a mirror. "Do you realize what impression it gives, when my daughter looks worse than a maid?"

"Then introduce me as one and you won't have to feel so ashamed." Another emotionless answer. The man sighed heavily.

"I'm not ashamed, you should know that well." Laurent said as softly and assuringly as he could. He didn't want to argue with his daughter, not after months of parting. "All I ask is a minimum of consideration. I told you I have duties, we have to stop on the way at the Palace of Justice." This time it was the girl that sighed.

"You have to stop." Georgine finally turned her eyes to her father. "Just go in without me. I'll wait inside the carriage. No one will see your shadow of a daughter." She shifted in her seat, moving out of the shadows. Her face was semi-oval with clearly drawn cheekbones and average sized, dark eyes. She had a straight, proportional nose. Loose strands of her dimmed-chestnut colored hair framed her features. Georgine could have been considered as quite pretty, however she was not the sort poets wrote rhymes in ode to. She held a common type of beauty... until she started to grimace, which twisted her features in an unattractive way.

"I don't know if that's a good..." The man started in an unsure voice.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'm not dying yet." she cut him off with a firm yet amused voice, a small smile appearing on her lips for a moment. The girl possessed quite a charming smile, only when it was sincere though. Laurent lightly smiled back.

As they neared their destination, the streets became filled with more and more people. Georgine noticed this with surprise. Yes, Paris was a large city, but its population rarely was drawn in swarms to one place, like flies over a piece of rotting fruit.

"What's going on? Why this crowd?" The girl asked her father as they finally pulled to a stop at Palace of Justice.

"Bah." Laurent waved with hand with annoyance. "Not worth mentioning." he firmly stated as he exited the carriage. The man then saw his daughter proceeding to do the same. "Why are you getting up?"

"Really father, I've been sitting for the last six hours. I want to stretch my legs while you're gone." Georgine replied as she stepped out onto the street. Fatigue with the journey was one of the reasons she wanted to get out of the coach, but an entirely different one was that she was curious of all this commotion. "And it's not like you can stop me anyway." The girl added smiling defiantly. Her father knew there was no point in arguing. He sighed and nodded.

"I won't be long. Don't stray away too far." The man turned on his heel and went towards the building. Just before entering, he adjusted the collar of his uniform. Laurent had to admit he was annoyed. After several months of parting, he traveled miles to bring his daughter home from the countryside and even this day he couldn't have entirely to himself. It seemed the duties of the city's Chief of Police were never over.

Georgine waited until her father disappeared behind the heavy doors of the grand Palace of Justice and began to follow where the crowd was heading. It didn't take long for her to reach the place men and women were gathering. In the middle of a wide, neighboring street people flocked around some man, that stood on an empty cart which currently functioned as a makeshift podium. He was making some sort of speech, but the girl couldn't make out what he was saying from this distance. She began pushing through the crowd, stepping on more than a few feet on the way, until she was capable of seeing and hearing the man clearly. With passion he spoke of revolution, liberty, the tyranny of the monarchy, giving power to the people.

"Too long have the rulers of France tormented the people with taxes, prison and poverty. No one will give us deliverance. No god or king. We must win our liberation with our own hands." The man's words were strong and decisive, his face serious, eyes full of fire. Yet while others around Georgine were cheering, she crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow. The content of his speech seemed to be contrasting with what she saw. Here stood a man of no more than twenty four by her judgment, young, handsome, talking like someone with the years and experience of her father, sounding as he could cure the world. When he started talking of the poverty of the citizens, the girl couldn't stop a quiet, single chuckle escaping her. Georgine couldn't help but think, what could he know about poverty? A good looking, fine clothed bourgeois in clearly expensive boots.

Still, she couldn't help but to find him interesting. It wasn't what he was saying though. The vision he was spreading seemed too unrealistic to her. Not quite along the lines of what she was brought up to believe in, either. However the way he spoke, his serious, cool composure, the fire in his eyes, the air of superiority surrounding him... Georgine could understand why people gathered around him. The girl herself had become more and more curious of him.

Georgine then noticed a group of other young men standing close around him, handing out pamphlets. If she had learned anything from her father and his ongoing work-related monologues, it was that if you want to find out something, mingle in, ask around. Her today's poor choice of wardrobe was to her advantage. The simple, old dress she wore made her look no different than the common-folk.

The girl, with use of a bit of wit, managed to extract some information from one of the men, that proved to be the least immune to her smiling, eyelash batting and as much feminine charm she was capable of producing. It was in a way funny, how much information some men were willing to give if approached the appropriate way. She learned that they were a group calling themselves "Les Amis de l'ABC". ABC read like _abaissés_ - the lowly. Friends of the lowly. Smart, Georgine thought. What other facts was she able to acquire, was that the man speaking to the masses was their leader, his name Enjolras. However the most important bit of information she gathered, was that they were meeting tonight at a place called the Cafe Musain on the Place Saint-Michel. Satisfied with this, the girl decided it was time to go back to the carriage and return home as she had plans for tonight.

As Georgine made her way to the coach, she noticed her father waiting for her. He stood with his arms crossed, a picture of discontent mixed with concern painted on his face.

"Where were you? I asked you not to wander off far." Laurent said firmly as his daughter approached the carriage. The girl sighed and looked at her father.

"I wasn't far, I just took a walk to straighten my legs." She began to enter the coach.

"Took you long enough." Georgine shrugged and sat down finally inside.

"I wanted to look around, I was gone for a while, I missed the city. I see no crime in it." she said matter-of-factly. "Besides, you should know that once I settle in again, I won't be sitting all day home either."

"You know I'm worried..."

"Can we please go? I missed home and I'm tired." The girl cut her father off, stretching her back, pressing her hand below her sternum. Laurent calmly nodded with resignation at that and entered the coach himself. As he sat down, he leaned to a small window in the wall of the carriage and spoke to the driver.

"Take us home." he gave the instruction. A crack of a whip could be heard and coach once again began moving. They were finally on their way home.

* * *

A familiar scent hit her nose as Georgine entered the lobby of the Laurent residence. It was the smell of home. Seven months passed since she had left for the countryside, to improve her health as it was said. Seven months of being sent into exile as she considered it.

The girl ran her eyes around the large entrance hall, it looked exactly the same as when she left. It wasn't very surprising as her father didn't have much taste for change. In the twenty years of her life, the only things she remembered to have changed in the house were decorative vases. The new ones placed only after their predecessors had been destroyed in some fashion.

Georgine had a long day behind, weariness growing inside of her. She sighed tiredly at the thought of having to say hello and most likely answer numerous questions about her time away. Empty, courteous inquiries of the servants and duègne Margaret - curious, middle-aged Englishwoman.

"Georgine!" The voice rang in the girl's ears as if summoned. The duègne made her way towards her with a broad smile on her face, her dress and petticoat rustling as she walked. "It's been so long. How was your travel?"

"Hello, Margaret. The travel was fine, thank you." Georgine replied, smiling meekly as the older woman actually embraced her. Margaret had been working in this household for over twenty years. She was first hired as a female attendant to Georgine's mother when she was pregnant. When Madame Laurent died in childbirth, Margaret changed from attendant to Georgine's minder, later tutor because of her education. Coming from a decent household, she was capable of handling the duties of mistress of the house. At that time, Monsieur Laurent gladly laid said duties in her hands, being completely devastated with the death of his wife. Very quickly he had simply appointed Margaret as the duègne, adjusting her new salary properly to the position. Still, after so many years, the woman had become close to the Laurents, perhaps close enough to be considered almost family. This allowed her a degree of informality towards Georgine, one an employed servant normally would not exhibit.

"You must be tired after all those hours." Margaret said, letting go of Georgine. "Rest in your room, I'll send one of the maids with some hot tea." The girl nodded wordlessly. "I made sure that no one moved anything there in your absence."

"Thank you." Georgine was genuinely grateful that Margaret had thought of trying to keep her things untouched. Or at least so she claimed. The girl didn't really suspect the duègne to pry into her life in that extent. Her father however was another story, especially considering the circumstances of her departure. "I'll go then." Margaret nodded at Georgine as the young woman directed her steps towards a grand staircase and after ascending it, disappearing in a hallway at the top.

When the girl entered her room, the first thing she did was collapse on her bed. Her bed. Missed for so long. She lay there motionless, sweeping the chamber with her eyes, taking in the familiar surroundings. The old, green tapestry, her vanity with its small cracks around the mirror, her pine desk with its green desktop, her velvet sofa that had a small tear in the tapestry, hidden under a decorative pillow - a flaw that normally would have a piece of furniture replaced in a reputable home, but Georgine liked her room decor too much to change it because of a small imperfection - and finally, the wooden doors to her walk in closet. She liked her closet, it had more functions than just a place to store clothes...

A maid had brought Georgine the tea Margaret spoke of and placed it on one of the bedside tables. The girl hardly noticed it and continued to lie on the bed. She was tired. However, a certain perspective seemed to pump energy into her. As outrageous as it may have seemed, she actually decided to leave her house tonight. Sneaking out wouldn't be a problem, her father would hardly notice as he will most likely be buried in documents as usual. Another thing bothered her. The Place Saint-Michel was a slums part of Paris, hardly a place a woman would want to wander through alone in the evening.

Then a smile played across Georgine's lips. She thought of something her father more or less willingly had taught her by talking of work through the years. A simple rule of investigation as he called it 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do' - an old saying that in his line of duty gained a new meaning. Through his endless monologues, Georgine's father had unknowingly taught her quite a few things and she had been clever enough to find a use for them.

The girl got up from the bed and went down to the servants' quarters and seeked out Marie, a young maid with whom she always had a decently friendly relationship. In the past she had chatted with the servant girl a few times. Marie came from a poor background, in the current times, she was lucky to have found employment in a household as good as the Laurents'.

"Hello, Marie." Georgine said when she found Marie carrying some linens to be pressed.

"Mademoiselle Georgine. I heard you've arrived home. How were you all this time?" Marie asked curiously, it had been seven months now since she had seen the master's daughter last.

"Fine, Marie, fine. Thank you. There really isn't much to talk about." She circled the servant girl and took her by the arm. "Marie, I need to talk to you."

"Yes, Mademoiselle? Is there something you need?"

"Yes, I need to look at your wardrobe." Georgine said, smiling. Marie couldn't have looked more puzzled then. "Leave those linens and come with me." The young mistress then took the lines from the maid and set them aside on a small table that stood by. She then tugged Marie by her arm to the room of the houses' maids.

The chamber of the servant girls was small and modestly furnished, but clean and well kept. It even had simple decorations like a vase with some flowers standing on a windowsill.

"Show me the clothes you have, Marie." Georgine said as she closed the door to the room behind them.

"I don't understand, Mademoiselle. Why do you wish to see my clothes? I have few."

"Please, just show them to me." The young mistress said as she sat down on one of the servants' beds.

Still puzzled, the maid nodded and reluctantly made her way to a chest of drawers standing in one of the corners of the chamber. She pulled out the middle drawer and produced a yellow, patterned dress. Her best, she wore it to church.

"No, that won't do. It's too nice. Do you have anything else?" Georgine shook her head as she examined the dress. Marie was becoming more puzzled with every moment. She put the yellow dress away and pulled out a brown one. She wore it whenever she was out to the market. Georgine raised her eyebrows. It was better for the occasion than the previous one. "Do you perhaps have anything else?"

"Mademoiselle, I really don't know why you want to see my clothes. And I don't have many of them either." Marie shrugged as she put away the brown dress. "Except those all I have is this old thing." The maid then pulled out an old, blue dress which had been long past its prime. Its hem had been mended in two places and the original color had faded. Gillian smiled.

"How much do you want for it?"

"Excuse me?"

"That dress, I want it. I'll pay you twenty franks for it."

"Twenty franks? Mademoiselle, it isn't worth twenty franks. And I don't know how you could possibly want..."

"Forty franks then." Georgine cut Marie off in mid-sentence. "And you can have one of my dresses in replacement, any one you like." The maid couldn't understand her mistress' behavior, however the perspective of earning forty franks for an old rag and being able to choose a dress from her employer's wardrobe was far too tempting for a poor girl like Marie. She handed the dress to Georgine.

"Mademoiselle, may I ask why do you want this?" The servant girl inquired. She knew she had made a good bargain, yet curiosity did not let go of her. "Do I have to worry about any consequences from Monsieur Laurent?" Hesitation filled her voice.

"Don't worry, just don't say anything about it."

"What if Monsieur Laurent sees me wearing one of your dresses, Mademoiselle?"

"Tell him I gave it to you instead of throwing it away." Georgine's eyes were fixed on examining the blue dress, she couldn't help but smile. "Perfect..." She whispered to herself.

"What?" Marie asked, hearing her mistress say something quietly.

"Nothing." Georgine shook her head and then turned her gaze from the dress to Marie. "Do you perhaps have a coat too?"

"I have a coat, Mademoiselle, but it's old too." Georgine nodded smiling.

"Good. I'll pay you another twenty franks for it. It's still pretty cold outside after dark."

Marie didn't even bother to ask this time, she just pulled out an old, thin, black coat, which couldn't have cost more than half the sum her mistress was offering her even when it was new. When Georgine approved of it, the maid handed it to her also.

"Come with me, I'll give you our money and then you can come to my room and pick yourself a dress." Marie nodded and didn't inquire anymore. It was obvious by now her mistress wouldn't say anything unless she wished to. In the end, the servant also decided that perhaps it was best to know nothing.

Georgine had taken the sixty franks promised to the maid from a box her father kept in his office when he was conveniently absent. She then allowed Marie to take one of her dresses and closed her bedroom door by key after the maid left. The girl went through her wardrobe, looking for shoes that would complete what she had in mind to achieve. She remembered of a pair of tall, black boots that she often wore during her stay in the countryside. They had endured many long walks on dirt roads, forest soil and occasional post rain mud. The boots were costly when first ordered at the shoemakers but their extensive use had left only some of their original appeal. Thankfully, they were still comfortable and solid enough to not soak through easily when exposed to rain and puddles.

Georgine changed into the clothes she had prepared for herself and when the time came, she left her room quietly. She made her way outside through the servant staircase and house entrance. Once finally in the street the girl pulled up the collar of her coat, slid her hands in her pockets and made her way towards the Place Saint-Michel and a certain cafe she had learned of earlier that day.

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Thank you for reading! Reviews will be greatly appreciated :)


	2. The bourgeois rebel and the girl in

**Summary:** Many can hear the beating of the drums, but to each they can play a very different tune. Some have everything, others nothing to lose. What does an ambitious, obsessive man do when his path is crossed by someone who soberly sees the possible consequences of his venture? Enjolras/OC...somewhat. Based on both book and musical.

**Author's Note:** An OC - I know what most may be thinking, but I promise to bleed my heart out before letting her become a Mary-Sue. Rating is for future chapters.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Les Miserables".

* * *

**II. The bourgeois rebel and the girl in the old coat**

Wax dripped onto the floor as candles burned out. The shelves they were placed on had long needed a cleaning, the remnants of melted candlesticks covering them entirely. But the keeper never bothered, simply sticking new candles between the melted stearine.

The wooden floor boards of the old Cafe Musain creaked on both levels of its building. Many had gathered today to listen to the chief of Les Amis de l'ABC. The efforts of the group had not been fruitless. Other circles that shared their opinions had become active as well. Loud sounds of joy and quiet talk of revolution could be heard at the Cougourde, the Medical Academy, and among regular laborers.

This current movement in the masses brought satisfaction and hope to the majority of the people assembled that night. However, it was the young man standing at the head of a large table placed in the middle of the room on the first floor of the café, that was more pleased than anyone else.

"The country is starving and enslaved while the king is occupied with attending the theater. It's time to destroy this world of tyranny to the foundations and build a new world. France is ready for changes." Enjolras spoke firmly and passionately to the gathered crowd, quite a few new faces among it today. The meeting was more open than some others, ones where more secret matters were discussed. This increase in numbers was another good sign for the 'Friends of the Lowly' in their chief's eyes. The masses were moving. Soon a spark would fall on the barrel of powder that was the situation in France. When that happens, nothing will be able to stop the explosion, he thought.

As much as the vision of a revolutionary storm brewing more and more - a liberating storm that would leave clean skies for a new world - satisfied the young man, the more he was annoyed with some of his friends turning their gaze from the main goal their group was striving towards. Pontmercy was once again sitting at one of the tables with the stare of a lost sheep. Enjolras did not even have to guess what his friend was thinking about. After so much planning, their prize seeming to come closer than ever, when it appeared the path would be straight till the finish from now, the fool becomes thrown off course like a ship with a broken compass. Sometimes, when Marius got too carried away in his loud, romantic pondering, the blonde wondered if perhaps walloping the compass would repair it.

"The people have begun to stir. More and more listen when we speak in public." Enjolras continued to talk to the people gathered at the cafe as he leaned over a table covered with a large, old map of France from the times of the Republic. The aged chart was almost forty years old and once was the property of the young man's grandfather - a quite haughty type who viciously despised anyone trying to give him orders, thus in the time of the king's absolute rule and granted privileges of the nobility and clergy, the mentioned three were exactly the object of his hatred. "This has caused some attention from the police, but there is no reason for worry. As far as they're concerned, we're just rabble they disperse every now and then. By what we've seen so far, it's unlikely they'll change their minds."

Between the gathered folk, all entranced by the leader's words, stood a girl in a black coat, somewhat less entranced. Georgine observed the man she knew from the street earlier today. He talked of tearing down the monarchy and a new world. Through the whole time however she didn't hear once _how_ he was planning to actually create that world. All he said was very beautiful and inspiring, granted, but sounded like castles built in the air. Finally he reached the subject of the police interfering when they addressed the citizens publicly. The girl wasn't bothered at all by his demeanor towards the law enforcement. However, she knew the Chief of Police too well to underestimate his awareness of what was going on in Paris.

"What if it won't be so easy to keep fooling the police? Their ranks aren't filled only with idiots." Georgine said out loud, attracting attention of the people around her, most not used to have their chief interrupted.

Enjolras himself raised his eyes from the map, searching for the source of the voice. Some of the men standing in the room moved, revealing between them the figure of a skinny, brown haired girl in an old coat, her hands hidden in her pockets.

"No, just mainly." Another voice cut in. It came from a young man with curly, black hair, sitting at one of the tables, holding a bottle of wine in his hand, smiling as if he wanted to impress someone with his comment.

Grantaire - the drunk was one of the Amis. It seemed however that only by persistent presence at their side as he had never contributed to the group with anything useful. Humor perhaps, but that hardly served any higher purpose. In the eyes of the leader of the 'Friends...' he was a useless court jester not worth attention.

"The few smart ones commanding the idiots can be enough." Georgine said sharply, turning her head towards the man that answered her.

"Even if one out of a dozen has a brain, that's nothing." The drunk replied before taking a swig from his bottle.

"A pack of the dumbest dogs can become dangerous beasts if trained by even just one smart man." The girl eyed the bottle the man was holding, barely a quarter of its contents left. Seeing who she was dealing with, she grinned as she spoke further. "But then what perceptiveness can be expected from someone who had so much alcohol that he wouldn't know a mutt if it bit him in the arse."

Hearing this, Enjolras straightened out from over the table and looked at the skinny girl with a bit of curiosity.

"Make no mistake, Mademoiselle, we don't underestimate the government's hounds." He walked towards her, continuing to speak. "So far, however, they have shown no awareness to our group. They wave things off as common discontent of the public." The girl looked up into his face.

"What of their informers? They have their snitches among the people." It was true, the police did have their rats spread among the city streets. The young man knew this and could understand why a newcomer asked about it.

"What's your name, Mademoiselle?" He asked plainly.

"Georgine." She shrugged as she answered.

"I am..."

"I know who you are." The girl interrupted him. "I heard on the street earlier today." Enjolras raised his eyebrow.

"Very well, then, Mademoiselle Georgine." He spoke, nodding at her, his voice smooth and calm. "It's true, the police have their informers. But they are not the only ones with their ears on the streets. Also, if they suspected something, I'm sure we would have heard from the king's hounds already. Instead they choose to remain ignorant, not paying attention to the real mood among the citizens." The young man stated and began to walk back to his previous spot.

"And what mood is that?" Enjolras was half way to the table when the question fell. He spun around, looking at the girl as if she had fallen off of the moon.

"The mood of a revolution. An uprising against the tyranny." He placed his left hand in the pocket of his trousers. "You say you saw us earlier today on the street, you must have seen the movement among the crowd."

"Yes, I saw the uproar, the crowd cheering when you spoke to them." The girl nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. She saw there was a movement among the residents of Paris, but just because men and women are willing to shout and raise their fists, didn't convince her they were willing to spill their blood. For the past years they had been living in poverty, starving, the phantom of a plague upon them - so said gazettes her father used to read. By what she witnessed that day on her journey home and walking here through the streets, people were tired enough fighting only for survival. "And then I saw those people disperse, calmly return to their ordinary, everyday lives." This sort of lack of faith in the citizens of France was not something the young man appreciated.

"Today. But soon the right day for the uprising will come." The young man spoke in a cool manner, just as sure of his words as he was earlier today on the street not far from the Palace of Justice. "When that day comes, a spark will start the flame of revolution. The people _will_ unite, rise and fight for their freedom." Enjolras saw no need to say anything more. He resumed his place at the table.

"Hopefully you're right." She said, just loud enough for Enjolras to hear, as she passed next to him. He didn't notice where exactly she went. He remembered that when he was leaving the cafe later, she was still among the remaining of his companions, sitting at one of the tables, talking to Courfeyrac.

* * *

It was a fact that the police's responses to the public speeches of the Amis had become more frequent. It was a time to plan and unite, not waste strength on petty, emotional distractions. This lately mostly concerned Marius and his infatuation with some skirt, whose name Enjolras could barely remember.

Most men preferred to romance their way into a woman's bed. However that required time and thought - a needless effort in Enjolras' eyes. There were much more important things happening to concentrate on. Love - it seemed a romantic illusion to him and an utter waste of energy. His own parents claimed to have been married in love, yet when he was just a small child and his father passed, his mother showed more interest in the funeral reception than the fact of her husband being recently deceased. It was all a farce made to have people cling to some false belief instead of thinking about important matters.

Everyone thought Enjolras did not have a mistress. They were right. A mistress even in the shallowest forms of a relationship, still makes it a relationship. The title renders a woman exceptional, gives a sort of meaning. He had no need or desire for such meaning, nor did he see a point in it.

He treated the sexual act objectively. Even though some thought him to be made of marble, he was human and his body required it to function at an optimum level, thus he fed it as needed. The urge was an itch to be scratched, nothing more.

When he was done with the prostitute beneath him, he pushed away from her and cleaned himself with a part of the sheets. He stood up, buttoning his trousers and made his way to a small, bedside table, acquiring some money from one of its drawers. He gave them to the girl and sent her on her away.

The frigidness of the situation did not bother him, he did not regret it. Through the entire act he did not even bother to undress more than taking off his jacket, unbuttoning his vest and trousers. All in all, it was a fair trade. She got paid for her service, his physical need was fulfilled.

When the woman left, he collapsed down on the bed with a clearer head. He started to think on what was truly important, the revolution and the future of France.

* * *

It was a mildly cold, spring day. Enjolras left his apartment shortly before noon. The previous night was a long one and as much as he hated to do so, he had simply overslept. He still had to visit the university library to complete material needed for an assignment given by one of his law professors. Law was not an easy study, but he showed a knack for it, the paragraphs sounded clearer to him than they seemed to others. He also exhibited a certain talent in seeing holes in them, twisting them if needed.

The young man exited the apartment house and stepped out into the cobblestone street, the chill of the spring air hitting his face. He made his way in the direction of the university, the sun shining in his eyes as it came into its zenith. It wasn't longer than a moment later he got ripped from a state of thought by something hitting his left shoulder from behind. He instinctively looked in that direction.

"Nice day, isn't it?" A female voice on his right asked. He turned his head and stopped in his tracks. It was that girl in the old coat that came to the cafe two days ago. She was grinning at him, clearly happy with the little trick she just pulled. What did she say her name was? Genevie? Georgine?

"What are you doing here?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow, eying the girl suspiciously. Judging by her appearance, he greatly doubted this was a district she could have lived in. It might have not been the most posh part of Paris, but neither was it an overly poor one. He had purposely chosen an apartment here because living was on a decent enough level. The buildings weren't vermin infested, flats were sufficiently spacious. However it was far enough from the rich neighborhoods to give him a level of liberty in his actions, away from the prying eyes of the spoiled, gossiping, bourgeois circles.

"Just walking around. Killing time." Georgine said shrugging, imitating a slur typical for the lower with her voice. It was a way of speaking she noticed among some of the servants working at her home. "Saw an acquainted face. Decided to..."

"Ambush them?" He interrupted.

"I was going to say 'say hello'."

"You have a very interesting way of saying 'hello' then." The young man scoffed. "I have errands to run and quite a bit of a march ahead of me." He slowly moved to walk away, trying to end this encounter as politely as possible. "You must excuse me, Mademoiselle Genevie." He began to walk down the street. Georgine understood what he was attempting to do and quickly caught up with him.

"It's Georgine." She corrected him. _Damn,_ he thought to himself. He looked somewhat surprised at her but continued his march. She started walking beside him. "My name is Georgine." She repeated. "And I have lots of time, since you have a long walk ahead of you, I can keep you company." The girl added, grinning again. He had a feeling she purposely wasn't taking suggestions.

"Anything following that name, Mademoiselle Georgine?" Enjolras asked without much interest, seeing that he will not be granted solitude soon.

"Fournier." A common surname, another thing borrowed from one the servants at the Laurents' house. "And you can leave out the 'mademoiselle', Georgine is fine." _And..._ One does not start a sentence with _and_. It was the second time, he thought.

"Well, Georgine, what occupations must your parents have since you have so much time on your hands..." One could easily hear the note of sarcasm in his voice.

"My mother's dead." She replied bluntly, showing her hands into the pockets of her coat, seeming to effortlessly keep up with his long strides. At the pace they were going, they already passed two blocks.

"And your father?" Georgine looked at the young man, pausing for an almost unnoticeable moment. There was no doubt if the blonde knew the real identity of her father this would be their last conversation.

"A caretaker." The girl blurted out the first thing that came to her mind, shrugging. Indeed, if to think of at a certain angle, her father was a caretaker. A caretaker to a very peculiar house.

They continued for a while, exchanging brief sentences, until they came by a crippled man begging on the opposite side of the street. He kept extending his hand, asking for any amount of money the people passing by could spare.

"It's sad." Georgine said, looking at the scene they passed. She was not insensitive. The young woman could see the wrong in the world, yet she did not see herself as one to act upon it. "Many people live like that, hungry and poor."

"I know. This is why the nation has to rise, why I want to change things..." She interrupted him, not being able to withhold a chuckle. Enjolras immediately stopped in his tracks and looked at her. "What is so amusing to you?" He asked, arching an eyebrow.

"You know? Really?" She asked, crossing her arms on her chest. The young man shook his head in puzzlement.

"Of course I know of the people's suffering and poverty." He stated firmly, but the girl just started grinning again.

"My apologies, I'm sure _you_ know how it is to beg, starve..." Georgine suddenly reached out and pulled at the lap of his fine jacket. "... and wear rags." He instinctively slapped her hand away, not being fond of this form of contact.

"What are you implying?"

"That for a man speaking of poverty, you wear very nice boots." She stated, her tone slightly tinted with malice. The girl was accustomed to expensive clothing and could easily recognize the work of a master shoemaker on fine leather. "How much did they cost? A couple hundred?" Enjolras shook his head, furrowing his brow, backing away somewhat. "By the indignation I'm guessing they cost more."

"It's not what I wear what matters, but what I'm trying to do." He finally said, firmly and as calmly as he could, being angered by the girl's accusing words. His family was doing more than well. What of it?

"And what is that?" Georgine asked, raising her eyebrows, her lips curled in an odd way that hardly flattered her.

"Change this country for the better." It was his honest intent, the young man meant it.

"How?" She continued to inquire. "I'm a citizen, I want to know how you want to change the country for the better." As much as her manner irritated him, the question was valid.

"By giving power to the people." He stated, the answer seemed obvious to him.

"To the people?" Georgine smiled. The blonde nodded in reply. "And men will vote for their government?" She started nodding her head at him, continuing to smile. The gesture had the air of a sort of indulgence, that effected his nerves.

"Yes." He said shortly and dryly.

"Like in the America?" The young woman once again borrowed from the servants at her home. 'The America' was how Marie called the colonies that declared themselves independent in 1776. Her manner of speaking didn't change, she only replaced the nodding with a raised eyebrow. The small grin still played at the corners of her mouth.

Enjolras sighed. The sentence she said wasn't exactly correct. America was a continent but the girl clearly meant the country of the United States. Another flaw in the functioning of France was that few were privileged to a proper education. Still, this caretaker's daughter seemed to know _something_ of the world.

"For example." Since she had an idea of how a free country can function, he hoped this would be the end of her questions.

"And what will that change?" The girl's words followed his with lightning speed.

"Excuse me?!" This time his voice was slightly raised. Loud enough for a couple passing them close by to turn their heads.

"An elected legislator can trample a man's rights as easily as a king can." Georgine stated.

"Well that will be a matter of having the right people in charge." As much as the rational logic of her words surprised him to come out of a simple caretaker's daughter's mouth, she deserved an answer. It was true, even if freedom was given to the people, if the wrong men were given power to steer the ship, nothing would change.

"Oh, the right people?" She began nodding again. "Like you?" Again she raised her eyebrow. After a moment of relief the irritation was growing inside the young man again. "You do of course realize, that if you succeed with this revolution you're brewing, at the end of it you _will_ be the most influential person around. The first in line to take power. One people will see as their leader."

"If they will decide to." He had thought of the possibility of which she was speaking. If such a moment would come and the people decided to lay responsibility for the country in his hands, he would do his best to lead them into the future.

"And then when you'll overthrow the government and be in power, you'll begin to change the world?" This inquiry didn't require a verbal answer, Enjolras simply nodded. Changes needed to be made. "Materialize your vision and ideas?" All this sounded familiar to her. History had shown that all men throughout time who fought against power appeared to be driven by ambition to overtake it themselves. A number of them indeed had noble ideas, yet many of those seemed to get lost on the way. France itself had witnessed such an individual rise and fall at the beginning of this century. For some odd reason she thought it would have been a pity if the same fate was to await the man before her.

"Yes." Of course he would. The young man wondered where she was going with this, her numerous questions that appeared to have obvious answers.

"Just like Emperor Napoleon." Georgine finally stated, the grin on her face widening. He hated to admit it, but that sentence left him with no answer. She pointed out a valid pattern. He could of course argue, that he would take a different course of action than the former emperor, but was there really a point? Had all of his speeches not reflected that? Was the girl this dull or simply trying to provoke him? Enjolras sighed, licked his lips and advanced a single step towards her.

"You know, those are very eloquent words for a caretaker's daughter." He stated coldly, irritation in his eyes.

"Oh, I learn from the finer than myself." The girl then smirked and mockingly curtsied before him, raising the sides of her dress' hem. "Your _future_ majesty." She put pressure on the word 'future'.

At this point he was fuming, his nostrils flared as he inhaled angrily, gritting his teeth. Suddenly then he straightened out, stood to attention, clicked his heels and bowed his head to her in the same, mocking manner. "Good day." He then walked away in a fast pace, leaving Georgine in the middle of the street. The girl smiled to herself and turned to walk in the direction of her home.

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Thank you for reading! Reviews will be greatly appreciated :)


	3. A march and an escape

**Summary:** Many can hear the beating of the drums, but to each they can play a very different tune. Some have everything, others nothing to lose. What does an ambitious, obsessive man do when his path is crossed by someone who soberly sees the possible consequences of his venture? Enjolras/OC...somewhat. Based on both book and musical.

**Author's Note:** An OC - I know what most may be thinking, but I promise to bleed my heart out before letting her become a Mary-Sue. Rating is for future chapters.

**Author's Note #2: **The disease described in this chapter is pancreatitis chronica, it was first described by doctor's at the beginning of the 19th century. All content in this chapter concerning it has been written after doing throughout research. The "roundabout" way some might see the way it is written is intended, as at the time the illness was quite new to the world of medicine, leaving physicians with very little to say about it, few knowing how to recognize it properly. I felt that writing about it in a more detailed and scientific way would be out of place considering how much the characters could actually know about it at the time.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Les Miserables".

**Thank you very much for the reviews.**

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**III. A march and an escape**

Georgine was half way home when it started: a familiar, unwelcome feeling of discomfort under her sternum, at first just a squeezing sensation inside. The girl started hoping it would pass. Sometimes it did, as rarely as that was. She gritted her teeth and started walking faster, as fast as she could without worsening what she was experiencing. Most of the time this prelude's outcome seemed to be a whim of fate.

Then, between one moment and the next, it began. A sudden feeling of what she could describe as a porcupine of rusty, iron nails tearing at her insides, spreading through her entire body. Georgine stiffened, inhaling air sharply, but continued to walk. This was not foreign to her. She knew that at all cost she had to keep walking, get home as fast as she could. What else could she do? Curling up into a ball in the middle of the street was not an option.

The girl tried to steady her breathing, make it as calm as possible. As always, it would make the pain slightly more bearable.

She marched on with determination, one goal set in her mind. Home. With every moment the throbbing inside grew, suffocating every fiber of her. With every step she thought only of finding the strength to take another. In her head it echoed like the even beating of a military march drum _'Just one more, just one more'_.

Inside her pockets, Georgine balled her hands into fists, hard enough for her knuckles to whiten and the small veins under her skin to emerge, pulsating. Her nails bit into her flesh, almost drawing blood. The girl however knew by this time how hard she could press them against her palms and not claw herself, but make it hurt enough to minimally distract her mind from the tearing sensation in her abdomen.

The color from her face had drained, a shadow of ordeal painting itself in her eyes. Yet her features seemed to remain frozen blank. She had learned to hold that face no matter how awful she would feel. As bad as it hurt, the idea of showing it in public was worse. She did not want the world to see her condition. Now, to everyone that she had passed, she looked just like anyone else walking ahead of themselves.

Georgine was not far from home anymore, merely a blocks' distance. However, it was that last block that made her destination seem to be worlds away. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and wrapped her arms around her chest. The throbbing in her body became sickening, radiating to her stomach. She started praying in her head not to vomit in the middle the street, the pain attacks in the past causing such a reaction more than a few times.

The front entrance was closer. She did not care anymore if anyone in the house would see her in this attire. The girl knew she could not make the distance around her house to reach the servants' gate and door. She only wanted to get inside and into her room. Upon reaching the estates fence, she began running one of her hands across its iron bars, as if unconsciously following a string.

Making it behind the gate she reached the heavy, carved, oak door of the house and pressed down the knob. It was either out of ignorance or certainty that no one would dare assault the home of the city's chief of police, that the door was never locked. At this point Georgine was thankful for that. She did not know if she would have managed the wait between knocking and someone answering. She slid inside, shutting the door behind herself and began walking to the grand staircase.

Misfortune herself had seemed to wish upon Monsieur Laurent to appear in that very moment. He emerged from one of the corridors leading away from the hall deeper inside the house. It had been truly extraordinary for him to be at home in the early afternoon.

He saw his daughter enter the hall, immediately noticing the clothes she was wearing, a look of utter surprise spreading across his features.

"Gigi? What on earth are you wearing?!" The elder man asked in a loud voice that echoed through the large, marble covered hall.

"Not now, father." Words muffled by gritted teeth were all the answer he received as his daughter rather quickly ascended the stairs and disappeared on the first floor. He sighed, understanding the situation. The moment he heard her voice, he knew. After all this time he had become sensitive like a piano tuning-fork to any signs of this. Monsieur Laurent was also aware, that in the circumstances, it was best to leave the girl alone. He would not, however, forget to later inquire about the ridiculous attire he had just witnessed her wearing.

Georgine finally reached her room, closing the door behind herself. She threw off her coat and frantically began unbuttoning her dress, the quite tight fabric seeming to suffocate her like a steel corset. When she undid just enough buttons to slip out of the frock, she tugged it off, remaining in only a loose shift. The throbbing in her abdomen was near the brink of what she could bare. The girl took her boots off and simply kicked the tangled pile of clothing under her bed. She slid under the covers, pulling them above her head, curling up into a ball in the middle of the mattress on her left side. The position proved to be the best for these moments, relief appearing to come sooner than in other ones.

She wanted the pain to just stop, trying in her mind to escape from it, somewhere far away. With the linen blanket covering her eyes from the light it was easier. The daylight was no longer distracting, mercilessly reminding of the current reality and sensations she experienced.

The spirited, outspoken girl was now reduced to a pitiful, little, curled up lump of pain under the bed sheets.

Georgine did not know how much time had passed as she lost all track of it during the attacks. It could have been an hour, it could have been three. At some moments she was not fully conscious. The pain had finally gone. Now she felt cold, like standing in a strong draft. This was an often if not constant aftereffect. The girl did not have the strength to move. She would most likely regain life within the coming hour. She usually did.

* * *

After forgetting to take along with him some documents and having to return home to retrieve them, Monsieur Laurent had finally returned to his office at the Palace of Justice. He sat down at his desk and laid a small stack of papers in front of himself. The man could not stop thinking if he should not have stayed home because of the state in which he witnessed his daughter. On the other hand he knew she hardly welcomed company at those times.

The pain attacks had started when Georgine was seventeen. They started suddenly. First everyone thought them to be either caused by food poisoning or some vicious bacteria. As they persisted to return, Monsieur Laurent began summoning and consulting various doctors. By calling in favors, he had even managed to have his daughter examined by the personal physician of Louis Phillip. They all raised their hands in a gesture of surrender.

Taking leave from his position he began traveling with Georgine to every doctor in the country who might have an idea what was the cause of his child's ordeal. Most attacks ended after an hour or two, some lasted over a day. The elder man's heart was being torn apart as he was forced to helplessly watch his only daughter suffer.

Finally Monsieur Laurent was directed to a _clinic_ as they called it, in Prussia, that specialized in diseases of the intestines. There after an examination and countless questions about the recurring condition the girl experienced, a professor Kaufmann had asked to speak to the Frenchman alone in his office.

The conversation was a blur to Laurent. He remembered the Prussian tell him of an organ called the pancreas, about it still being quite a mystery to the medical world. The man spoke of some reports, a description of a disease made in the recent years and all of Georgine's symptoms fitting it. In the end he spoke of observations done on patients thus far diagnosed. At that moment Jacques Laurent's world had truly fallen apart. None of the patients lived above ten years since they started experiencing the returning pain attacks. Physicians had yet a long way to find a treatment. All they could offer now was morphine.

They had called Georgine to the office. Professor Kaufmann upon agreeing on the matter with the girl's father first, repeated all that he had told Monsieur Laurent. The Frenchman sat silently next to his daughter, watching her face change from confusion to fear and then, to a sinking emptiness. She didn't become hysterical, she didn't scream, she didn't cry, she just sat there, squeezing one hand with the other in her lap.

There was nothing they could do but finally return home. On the day they started their journey, he remembered Georgine sitting in the corner of the carriage opposite to him, staring blankly outside the window as they drove. A few silent tears fell down her cheeks. Laurent felt his heart sink but he didn't know whether to react or let her be, he chose the latter. Then she spoke:

_"I don't want anyone to know." the girl said quietly, continuing to stare outside the window._

_"What?" Georgine looked at her father, he didn't know if there was more sorrow or anger in her at that moment._

_"You can tell Margaret, but beside her, I don't want anyone to know." Her words were clear even though coming through gritted teeth. The man simply nodded. "Promise me."_

_"I promise." Laurent was no perfect man, he had many flaws like any other person, but in that one moment he made a promise he swore to himself to keep no matter at what cost._

They barely talked through the rest of their journey despite its significant length. During the next attack his daughter got, she had taken the morphine professor Kaufmann gave her. After returning to the living after the drugged haze, she had thrown it out the window of the inn they were staying the night in, refusing to take it again. Georgine claimed it made her feel like the dead and for that she would have time. Her father didn't argue.

After many, many days of travel, the two had reached home. It was then that his daughter's antics started, as Laurent called them. They often infuriated him as they were uncalled for in a young woman of her status. Yet, although he tried reasoning, arguing and calling her in line with paternal authority, her behavior continued and he remained passive in action.

Monsieur Laurent expressed his discontent with his daughter's way of conduct, the decay of her manners. He shouted, threatened with consequences. He never made good on any of those threats. The man was devastated and torn inside. One side of him argued with her actions the way any decent father's would. Another side, however, gave silent permission to them, understanding her argument that when most people have decades to live their lives, she didn't have even one left. As a result, he was left with a well-educated by Margaret, overly outspoken daughter who intently chose to act often seemingly thoughtlessly, on a whim.

Because of all of this, for almost three years now the elder man had retreated into burying himself in work. He had been leaving his home early in the morning, returning sometimes in the very late evening. In his duties he found salvation from madness. Monsieur Laurent had already lost his beloved wife prematurely, when twenty years ago she had been giving birth to Georgine. Now he lived with the thought that soon one day, he would lose his only child also.

* * *

It was a sunny spring morning. Monsieur Laurent and Georgine sat down to breakfast in the dining-room together, yet neither had really spoken to the other. The air in the room had grown thick throughout the meal; the father poking his fried eggs around the plate with his fork, the daughter lazily running her spoon through her oatmeal. When it seemed they both finally gave up on their food, Laurent broke the silence in the room.

"What were you doing in that ridiculous attire yesterday?" He referred to when the girl returned home on the previous afternoon, wearing a frock and coat that hardly suited a young woman of her status.

"Just out. On a walk." Georgine replied blankly, reaching for her cup of tea. She could hardly tell him where she truly had been.

"But why in that horrid clothing?" He continued to inquire.

"Please, father, it's you who rails on about the commotion on the streets. How they are filled with beggars and thieves." She took a sip of her tea and tried to speak in the most reasonable tone possible. "I think it's sensible to think that I'll be much safer looking like someone not worth the bother to rob rather than parading around in a fancy dress." A logical explanation tended to be the best one to give.

"Hmmm." He took a sip of coffee from a cup standing in front of him. "I suppose that is reasonable." Monsieur Laurent said, nodding his head slightly. With the growing poverty among the citizens, the streets were not exactly the safest of places for a lonely, richly dressed young woman. One could barely walk through them without beggars asking for money, not to mention the flock of degenerates and thieves. The sad truth was that nothing produced such people like difficult times. Of course it wasn't all their own faults, many were just desperate unfortunates forced into that situation. Men were capable to go at any length if their families are starving. The elder man understood that, although he was never forced into such circumstances, yet he knew that when it came to a conflict between protecting loved ones and obeying a dry paragraph, it was the first of those two that would win. However, as much he could sympathize with people not truly guilty of their fates, he had no delusions about the criminal disease gnawing at society's bones. The city was filled with drunks and crooks who were capable of killing for a few sous. He had seen his good share of them through the years of his service.

"And don't worry, no one will judge you by my appearance. I doubt anyone would recognize me. I especially doubt that our acquaintances would even care to look at a girl in that clothing." She stated, looking at her father, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Most of the people they knew batted common-folk away like flies. They would hardly spare a glance towards a woman in the attire she wore yesterday.

"You sometimes scare me with your thinking, Gigi. I occasionally wonder why I can't just have a normal daughter." Georgine raised her eyebrow and Laurent rethought his words. He then smiled and continued. "One who doesn't think, buys dresses, plays the piano, gossips all day and makes ugly, little drawings of flowers in vases." The elder man jested with no malice.

"Because I'm too much like you." She laughed and took another sip of her tea. It was true, they were alike in some parts. Both were certainly stubborn and persistent.

"You're too smart for your own good, you know. No man is going to want you." It was supposed to be a light joke. However, the girl raised her eyebrows, the earlier smile disappearing from her face.

"One did." She said dryly.

"Please, lets not start that subject." He was hardly in a mood to start that discussion. Truth to be told, he would never be in a mood to talk of the subject. The feeling he had about it was comparable to drinking wine and the alcohol turning sour between one sip and the next.

"Fine." A cold, one word answer. Not waiting for a reply, the girl left the dining-room without saying anything else. That chapter of her life was closed, and it had been clear to her for many months now. Still, she truly did not take kindly to her father's attitude on the matter. It was not what he did that angered her, but the satisfaction about it in him. Another spoon of vinegar to swallow, was that in the end he turned out to be right.

Laurent sighed and tapped his fingers on the table top. He wondered why did he even start speaking of something concerning marital relations.

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	4. Of bushes and hot situations

**Summary:** Many can hear the beating of the drums, but to each they can play a very different tune. Some have everything, others nothing to lose. What does an ambitious, obsessive man do when his path is crossed by someone who soberly sees the possible consequences of his venture? Enjolras/OC...somewhat. Based on both book and musical.

**Thank you very much to Deplam for the reviews :)**

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**IV. Of bushes and hot situations**

Enjolras and Marius sat in the backroom of the Musain. They had both decided to contribute their time to work concerning the aims of the Amis. Enjolras was leaning over sheets of paper, writing a speech for the next rally the group was to hold. Marius was supposed to count the number of willing men reported by other revolutionary circles. Supposed to was, however, the best way to describe the progress of his work. The young baronet kept turning away from the documents before him, every few moments leaning back on his chair. He stared aimlessly out the only window in the room as if waiting for a vision to be bestowed upon him.

"We are supposed to be concentrating on bringing down the monarchy, not rain from the clouds by staring at them." Enjolras broke the silence in the room after seeing his companion abandoning his work for perhaps the dozenth time.

"I'm sorry. I got lost in thought." Marius shook his head as he was torn from his pondering.

"I noticed." the blonde replied dryly, continuing his writing.

"I just cannot stop thinking about Cosette." Pontmercy sighed, dropping his quill. "She's just so extraordinary..." he trailed off, imagining his beloved. He remembered the first time he saw her on the street, giving charity to the poor. She seemed to almost glow that day. "So beautiful..."

"Marius." Enjolras' tone was tinted with warning. He tried to bring his friend back onto the ground, seeing him begin to drift away into another daydream.

"Her eyes are as green as meadows in spring..." Marius kept going, deaf to his friend's voice. The blonde rolled his eyes. He was not capable of comprehending how someone given a specific task, can so easily allow his mind to wander. Not to mention tread onto grounds of such ridiculous comparisons.

"She's like a mythical nymph, shining in the sun..."

"Pfff" Enjolras could not stop himself. The last sentence was one too much. He had never possessed an ear for poetry and most certainly not for pseudo-poetic, amorous odes.

"If you would have met her, you would have understood." Pontmercy stated, sure of his words as he crossed his arms over his chest. Cosette was such a charming creature, even Enjolras would have to see it. Marius had to admit he wanted the blonde to understand. They had been close friends for years now and he cared for his opinion. It was why he had not dropped the subject in his company completely, hoping to be eventually given at least a small amount of approval. So far his efforts remained unrewarded.

"As if I have never seen a girl before. The streets are full of them." Enjolras replied blankly. He was never one to swoon over maidens, no matter how charming they were trained to be. Many times his mother tried to push various bourgeois girls onto him after he had returned from boarding school and before he moved out of his family home.

"She's different."

"How so? Till now I assumed all of her limbs are in place. Unless you want to tell me she misses some or has an excessive one." the blonde jeered, straightening up from his work.

"You do not understand anything." Marius waved his hand. His friend sighed heavily with annoyance.

"I understand that there is an uproar among the citizens and we are closer than ever to achieving our goal. Yet while this is happening you, instead of focusing, are floating away into some naive, trivial dreamland." Enjolras spoke harshly. He had little to no patience when his closest friends and co-revolutionaries got distracted from their main cause with matters of lesser importance. Or matters that he viewed as ones of small importance.

"What is the point to fight for the future if you have no dreams of it?" Pontmercy asked, but continued speaking before the blonde could reply. "You just cannot understand it because you never loved anyone."

"I love France." Enjolras stated.

"I meant someone made of flesh and blood." Marius sighed, knowing his efforts to convince his friend to his perspective will most likely remain fruitless. Over all the time they had known each other, he had never seen Enjolras show even the slightest romantic interest in anyone. "You have no idea what you are missing out on by being so..." he searched for the right words to describe what he thought.

"So?" the blonde inquired raising an eyebrow.

"Indifferent to higher feelings." the young baronet finally said.

"Higher feelings? Do you even know what higher feelings are, Marius?" This time Enjolras was the one not waiting for an answer. "Higher feelings are pride, love of your country and a cause you sacrifice your life to. Not some petty infatuation with a skirt like any other." After years of planning and work, the recent turn of events with Marius being so distracted by his love affair was highly irritating for Enjolras. It was not that he did not wish his friend well, but in life certain priorities needed to be made. The future of an entire nation was more important than the emotional quandaries of one man.

"You want to reform the country but you yourself are completely irreformable." Pontmercy joked. Their conversation had reached a point where he had a choice between arguing with his friend or trying to ease the atmosphere. He had no desire for the first so he decided to do the latter.

"Some things need to stay consistent."

"Like you, consistent as marble." Marius once again jested, recalling how some referred to Enjolras like he was some sort of statue.

"What is wrong with marble? It's solid."

"It's a cold rock. It does not do anything human."

"You have no idea what I do when you are not around." the blonde smirked. "Unless you hide under my bed like you enjoy stalking that damsel of yours from under her fence." The baronet's eyes went wide. "You thought I was not aware of it? All the Amis know you hide like a poor man's Romeo in the bushes."

"Alright, that is not a subject I want to continue." he smiled, a blush involuntarily creeping onto his face. One of his friends must have accidentally seen him, when he observed Cosette from afar at her home, and told the others of it. "Mind you, I do not hide in the bushes."

"Of course. Bushes are below the level of a baronet." Enjolras nodded his head in a mocking manner.

"Of course." Marius confirmed, trying to be as serious as he could.

"You climb into a tree then?" They both started chuckling. Pontmercy struggled to find a reply for his defense. One, that would not end up being used against him.

Suddenly running up the stairs could be heard. Courfeyrac entered the backroom, a look of terror mixed with despair on his face. His clothing was disheveled and soiled black. His breathing was ragged. Clearly he had been running all the way from where he had come from.

"Courfeyrac, what happened?" Marius asked, his eyes widened in surprise. The same question was on Enjolras' lips as he straightened out in his chair.

"We have a problem." Courfeyrac panted out.

* * *

Enjolras, Marius and Courfeyrac ran down the street heading to the river, the sun shining in their eyes over building rooftops. The men rushed in its direction as fast as their legs would allow them.

For months now the Amis had been secretly gathering arms and gunpowder for the coming revolution. They had stored all in a rented basement of a rundown building near the Seine's bank. Far enough from the Musain to avoid unnecessary suspicion but close enough to allow easy transport when the appropriate time came. Along with the arms, they kept registers of what they acquired and maps of the city with planned locations of barricades. The paperwork was kept in the basement itself along with muskets, carabins and rifles. Gunpowder was hidden in a small cellar accessible through a hatch in the upper substructure's floor. The barrels stood among torn open bags of rice, its grains absorbing the underground humidity and protecting the powder. Everything was hidden away from the prying eyes of the people and secret agents of the police.

When the men reached the front of their hitherto storage they stopped in their tracks. Smoke was slowly coming from inside the old house.

Combeferre and Grantaire stood on the street, their faces and clothing dirtied from the fire even more than Courfeyrac's.

"Enjolras, the storage caught on fire." Combeferre said, breathing heavily as the three other Amis approached them. "We tried to put it out, but we failed. The flames spread too much. The whole thing had not exploded till now only because the fire did not reach the lower basement yet." He tried to explain the situation as neatly as possible - considering the circumstances. Their entire supplies threatened to go up in smoke. "Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly were with us. We carried out as many guns as we could. They went to hide them before the police would start showing up." Enjolras nodded at his words.

"What about the documents? The plans of the city?"

"We did not have time to retrieve them." Combeferre shook his head.

"Bloody hell." Enjolras cursed through gritted teeth. The maps in question were of high strategic value. The locations marked on them had been discussed with other groups planning to revolt. They were a detailed chart of the most important barricades to rise. Time was running short, the building could explode any minute and more than enough unwanted attention was already upon them because of the fire.

Not giving it more thought, Enjolras made a decision. He darted towards the building and ran inside it. When the others saw what he was doing they shouted to stop him, but he had already disappeared in the house.

The old structure was full of smoke that bit his lungs, but he would not go back. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his mouth and nose to be able to breathe easier. The young man made his way down to the basement, flames already licking the left wall of the staircase.

It was hard to see through the smoke in the upper cellar. Enjolras felt his eyes sting from the close fire, but he could make out that not all of the gathered documents have been consumed by the scorching element yet.

He quickly looked through the papers he could reach, unceremoniously throwing them on the ground as his frantic search continued. The young man hoped the maps had not been among the documentation that already perished. Between the stacks of paper he finally found a red, leather folder that contained the plans of the city with marked locations. He grabbed it quickly and hid it under his jacket.

Enjolras made his way back up the stairs as fast as he could. As much as it was possible, he shielded himself with the side of his jacket from the wall that was already well ablaze. He struggled not to suffocate from the smoke, barely able to breathe anymore. He kept blinking constantly, the heated air from the near fire forcing him to close his eyes every few seconds. Each step he took seemed to be harder. He half-consciously started counting the stairs left before him, telling himself in his mind that his breath had to last him only a brief period of time more. The lack of air was beginning to make him hear a deaf, ringing sound in his ears.

When the young man reached the ground floor corridor, the sight of light coming from the open front door gave him new strength. It had become slightly easier to breathe. He could finally see the end of this suffocating inferno.

As he exited the building, he inhaled sharply at the fresh air. Perhaps he had not spent a long time in the burning house, but those moments seemed like an eternity. It took minutes for his face and clothes to become soiled in black, his skin wet with sweat from the heat. The experience he just endured was not one he wished to ever repeat again.

The moment he was on the street, his friends gathered around him. They all decided to leave the scene as fast as possible. The stored gunpowder was a continuing threat and when the police would finally arrive, it was best to be far away.

The group of Amis separated themselves a block's distance from the burning building and moved off the street into an empty alleyway in order to catch their breaths. When the flames will finally reach the gunpowder, the blast could not cause too much damage - they told themselves. The powder was two levels below the street, the bottom one of them made of solid stone. The explosion would most likely only end the already prolonged existence of the old house. Surrounding structures were threatened with only small breakage as the building stood freely. However, the men could not be so sure of the people's safety though. It was their greatest concern. Occurrences like this always attracted the attention of the populace.

"Have you gone mad?!" Combeferre suddenly shouted at Enjolras. The blonde stood leaning back against a brick wall, still panting. "You could have gotten killed! Burned alive!" Enjolras looked at his friend and revealed the folder he hid under his jacket to protect it from the flames. The present Amis' eyes went wide at the sight of it. Then, they started smiling.

"Put it somewhere safe." Enjolras said, shoving the documents into Combeferre's hands. "How did that fire start anyway?" he asked. There had not been time to waste on questions earlier. He was more than curios why have months of their work gone up in flames. A fire does not start by itself. Thinking of it made his nerves tense up. After all it was not a malicious mouse that lit the damaging flame.

"We brought a few pistols to the storage and sat down to rest for a while. Grantaire was a bit dazed with wine and he tipped over a candle stick onto a pile of papers. We tried to put it out but it caught onto the wall and started spreading." Courfeyrac blurted out. He only considered his words when he saw the look in their leader's eyes. The boy could have as well signed a death sentence on his often alcohol stunned friend.

Enjolras' features turned stone-like, but if a single glare could kill, the one he gave Grantaire would have rendered the man dead a dozen times over. He had always considered the drunk useless, never contributing to the group's work. His alcohol propelled rants were only a nuisance. The blonde only tolerated Grantaire because the rest of the Amis liked him and his questionable sense of humor. This time, however, the drunkard had gone too far.

"You worthless..." Enjolras set off from under the wall towards the dark haired man like an enraged bull. Grantaire instinctively took a step back. Seeing this, Combeferre and Courfeyrac darted to stop their leader. They both knew the blonde's attitude towards the drunk and feared that because of what happened, this could end in bloodshed.

"Enjolras, stop. It was an accident. He did not do it on purpose." Combeferre tried to reason with his angry friend.

"Of course he did not." Enjolras briefly looked at Combeferre and then turned his gaze towards Grantaire. "He does not have a purpose." he said icily, his anger taking a cold form. It was worse than if he remained enraged. When the young man's fury appeared to subside on the outside, it had in fact turned into a cruel blizzard inside of him. In that state he was no longer after physical violence towards the one that enraged him, but aimed at his opponent's soul. His friends had witnessed him capable of saying cruelly wounding words. All in a manner so calm and emotionless, that it seemed he was speaking of the weather. This detached demeanor made the content of his speech even more piercing.

"Enjolras..." Combeferre started, but he was interrupted by Grantaire who finally decided to speak for himself.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause damage." he apologized, walking closer towards the blonde and two other of his friends. 'Sorry' was quite the infantile thing to say in a situation like this. Yet, there really was nothing else he could do.

"When do you mean to cause something other than damage?" Enjolras retorted blankly.

"I mean it, Enjolras, I'm sorry. It was my fault." The drunk spoke with regret in his voice. He was like a child trying to apologize for playing with a tinderbox and setting a tablecloth on fire. "I want to make up for it. What can I do? Let me help. I want to do something."

"You want to do something? Be of assistance, hmm?" The blonde raised an eyebrow. "Then do everyone a favor, go back there and jump into that cellar." his tone remained cold and emotionless.

A dead silence fell among the gathered Amis, some of them taking brief glances at each other. Grantaire stood still, his mouth slightly open, a devastated look in his eyes. He had always adored and admired Enjolras. One would think at that moment he was actually capable of doing what his leader told him to.

The sound of an explosion tore through the air. Some of the men jumped at the sudden, thundering noise, knowing what it had meant. The fire had finally reached the gunpowder.

"Too late. A pity." Enjolras said matter-of-factly to the drunkard still staring at him. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, turned on his heel and simply walked away. He did not spare another glance at the culprit behind today's unfortunate event. The young man needed to get home and wash the filth from the fire off of himself. Also, he had to find a way to somehow replace the lost supply of gunpowder and weaponry. It would not be an easy task.

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**Thank you for reading! Reviews will be greatly appreciated.**


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